


we are the hollow men

by ruinsrebuilt



Series: the hollow men [1]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Angst and Fluff, Canon Era, Grant's Perspective, M/M, Rare Pair, The Breaking Point, the last patrol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 23:06:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10581369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruinsrebuilt/pseuds/ruinsrebuilt
Summary: Grant is an exhausted witness to the frozen horrors of Bastogne. Ron is his hope.





	

**Author's Note:**

> hello lovely people and welcome to my first Grant/Speirs fic!! I hope you enjoy <3
> 
> this will most likely be part of a series, as I have a lot more to write in the verse, but I felt like this was a  
> good place to end this particular fic, so I will save the rest for another day. 
> 
>  
> 
> We are the hollow men  
> We are the stuffed men  
> Leaning together  
> Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!  
> Our dried voices, when  
> We whisper together  
> Are quiet and meaningless  
> As wind in dry grass  
> Or rats' feet over broken glass  
> In our dry cellar
> 
> \- from The Hollow Men by T.S. Eliot

Ever since he could remember, Grant had been good at reading between the lines of people. He saw what was written in the hollow space inside their chest, the things they kept only for themselves. Grant saw, because that’s what he did. He was a witness. 

He didn’t remember the first time he noticed Ron, not really, not in the way everyone else did. It seemed like everyone had a story, some sort of insane tale made from the stuff of legends. ‘Did you hear about the time…’ the whispers would say. Instead Grant had a smile. The feeling of a presence nearby. A quick nod, singling him out from the other soldiers of a foreign company. Grant couldn’t reconcile the nighttime whispers with what he saw between Ron’s lines. 

He was tough, there was no room for doubt there. And while Grant witnessed a softness he was sure no one else could see, there was no denying the man had steel in his bones. Or ice, as the case may be. 

It seemed they were all men of ice these days. Bastogne was hell frozen over, and they were the sinners come there to die. That’s what Grant told himself, anyway. It made it easier, pretending like he deserved to be there. He almost believed it too, except then he looked into the faces of his platoon, saw the youth and the fear, the shredded innocence shivering there, and he was reminded that they didn’t deserve this, couldn’t deserve this. 

They certainly hadn’t deserved that coward of a CO. The feeling that clenched Grant’s chest when he realized they were going to die in the open fields of Foy was one of relief. A morbid sense that it would all be over soon, that Dike would never again be able to gamble away his life. Then through the smoke came Ron, running like an angel on a mission to exact God’s judgement. Grant couldn’t tell what he said to the trembling CO, but in an instant the pulse of the battle was changed. Scattering soldiers united again, becoming a tidal-wave that crashed against shores of Foy. Once they reached the town, it was over before it began. 

The first time Grant experienced the softness he saw in Ron was when the man found him standing beside the town’s lone church, coming down from the battle-high and smoking another in his endless chain of cigarettes. Grant was surprised to see the dirtied face of what he guessed was his new CO. Surely he had something better to do than hold up the wall of a crumbling church with a lowly sergeant. 

He didn’t say that though. He simply held out his newly lit cigarette, which the man took with trembling fingers. Grant witnessed that too, and he knew it was only because Ron let him. He didn’t know what possessed him, but when the cigarette was handed back to him, he allowed his fingers to brush the bloody fingers that clutched it. He left them there for a breath, his steadying heartbeat pulsing through his hands into the other’s. It was brief, but it was enough. 

After that, something in the air had changed. Maybe it was the fact that they were indoors for the first time in months, or maybe it was the fact that Ron continued to be a presence, always nearby, hovering like an unsure ghost. In the aftermath of the battle, and the sniper attack, and then their orders to the convent, while Grant busied himself taking care of his platoon, he felt Ron like a phantom limb. This level of consciousness was a new feeling for Grant, and he was unsure why it even existed.

That night was spent in a warm convent, piled atop each other in rows of pews, and more content than any of them could ever remember being before. 

The choir of angels had gone, the candles were burning low, and Grant was nearly lost to sleep when he felt that same comforting presence. He opened a sleepy eye, and there stood Ron, with a strange look in his eyes. For the first time ever, he seemed unsure of himself, like maybe he wasn’t supposed to be there. Deep down though, they both knew he was. Grant patted the empty pew next to him and with a little smile Ron heaved himself down, deflating as he went until he was a limp ragdoll, his head against the back of the pew, his arm pressed against Grant’s. They stayed that way, pressed closely together, until the next morning when they were shaken awake by a breathless runner, come to fetch Ron for a meeting with the higher ups. With a quick glance at Grant, and a subtle touch to his knee, Ron was gone and Grant was left feeling colder than he ever had in Bastogne. 

They didn’t get the time they wanted after that, not until they rolled into a cold, muddy town by the name of Haguenau. They were a company of rags, filthy and exhausted. Grant did what he could to make sure his men had what they needed, but it was difficult when he had nothing to give. He was running on months-past-empty and he longed to just collapse where he stood, hardly caring whether he ever got up again. He knew Speirs felt the same. His orders came in deep sighs, and the lines around his eyes told of too many nights of forgone sleep. Grant knew Ron had a habit of abandoning his bed to find something to keep busy, something to do to benefit his men, in some small way. And he knew from the sorrow in his eyes that it never felt like enough. 

It was during one of these moments that Grant found him, hunched over a hurricane of maps in the deserted CP. His back was to the door, his hands braced against the table like it was the only thing keeping him upright. In truth, it probably was. 

Grant stepped quietly into the room, unsure whether or not he should disturb his captain. As soon as he was through the door, though, Ron’s shoulders seemed to relax. Grant wondered if the awareness between them went both ways. 

Ron’s expression was open when he faced Grant. He didn’t seem surprised to find the sergeant there, hesitating just inside the doorway. A thick silence hung around them as they took in the state of each other. They were hollow, empty, neither of them having anything left to give, but wanting to anyway. 

“You should rest.” The words fell from him before he had a chance to question them. Grant cringed at the informality, and waited to be chastised for such familiarity. Maybe he had presumed too much. 

But Ron’s face softened and he walked tiredly across the room to stand close, dangerously close. 

“You should too.” His voice was quiet, the sharpened steel gone, replaced by something infinitely warm. 

Grant held his breath, not daring to look away as Ron reached out, his fingertips grazing down Grant’s sleeve, testing. Grant stepped a little closer, signaling that this was okay. That it was more than okay, it was wanted, needed. The fingers tightened on his sleeve before both of them moved as one, stepping into each other until they were pressed tightly from head to toe. Grant’s leg slid in between Ron’s, leaving no room between them, and for a suspended moment they forgot everything but the feeling of each other, their faces buried in each other’s shoulders, breathing in the nearness. One of them made a soft noise, somewhere between a giggle and a sob, and they both clutched tighter to each other. Pressing, feeling, nearly crushing. 

Too soon Ron pulled back, and Grant made a small noise of protest, not ready to step back into their masks, afraid that whatever this was might be over. But his protests were cut off before they began, Ron pressing his warm lips to Grant’s with a tenderness that not even Grant had seen or known existed in the context of Ronald Speirs. The sensation of Ron’s stubble against his own and their hot breaths mingling as one was enough to warm Grant to his toes. It chased away the nightmares, leaving safety in its place. For the moment, there were no memories from the past to haunt him, no worries for the future to press down on him until he was felt infinitely small in an infinitely large war. There was only this: Ron and Grant. Grant and Ron. 

And in that moment, they were enough. 

 

~~~~~~~~

**Author's Note:**

> special thank you to my lovely beta Rachel (tumblr: @thatsnotmozart)


End file.
